Shimmer & Rot
by saphirefox-irl
Summary: Secret Six. A story about the childhood of Peter and Alex Merkel. Ragdoll 3 and Junior. Obviously dark.
1. A Dead Rat

I think the characters of Ragdoll (Jnr.) and Junior are really interesting. That's why I decided to write a fic that expands on their past. There isn't a whole lot of information given about them in cannon (which probably just makes them more interesting). If you haven't read any of the Secret Six stuff (do!) they are the (youngest?) children of the original Ragdoll (a super villain and cult leader). It is heavily implied that they were abused and also that they had an incestuous relationship. They both end up very fucked up (Junior probably more so.)

This story so far is not graphic but it is still upsetting because of the subject matter. Hence the rating.

OOCness at this stage in this fic is due to characters being very young and is intentional.

The characters of Peter and Alex Merkel were created by (the very talented) Gail Simone and probably belong to DC. I'm not making any money from this.

************************************

Peter held the rat's small corpse close to his chest. He wouldn't cry this time. He WOULDN'T. Carefully he stood. His right leg wobbled. It looked as though the slightest push would leave his seven-year-old body sprawled on the dusty floor. He was the size of a young toddler. His hair was a grubby, matted strawberry-blond. His eyes were round and blue, bright with unshed tears. One was encircled by a fading bruise.

Slowly he made his way along the dark corridors of his home. The building had been a factory once, a long time ago. It had been due to be demolished when the boy's father had moved in and established himself there.

***

A woman in a patched, patterned skirt smiled vacantly as the child past her, still clutching the dead rat. The woman held a doll. Her baby was gone a year now.

Stepping outside, onto the compacted dirt of the old factory yard, Peter could see the infant's grave along with those of the first three rats he'd tamed. Each was marked with whatever debris he'd been able to find; old bricks and broken glass for the most part. Where the baby was buried strips of coloured fabric were tied to a rusted steel pole. They hung limply in the still air. Slowly he began to scrape out another grave.

***

"Hello Peter."

His sister Alex sat in the center of their room, dust staining her patch-work dress. She was only six but already beautiful. Her hair was flame red and her skin was as pale as porcelain. She looked like a doll and her big blue eyes were as lifeless as if they were made out of glass.

Before her lay a naked barbie doll. She was in the process of pushing drawing pins through its plastic limbs, crucifying it on the stained floorboards. Her brother did not mention the dead rat. He sat on his bed - little more than a wooden pallet really - and hugged his blankets to his chest. Alex pushed pins into the doll's painted eyes and, finally, into the smooth plastic between her legs.

***

The sun was setting when their nanny - an older woman - brought them dinner; cereal and powdered milk. Peter ate quickly, scraping his spoon around the bowl to get the final remnants of the watery fluid. Finished, he sat quietly while his sister ate the last of her meal. He watched their nanny's pendulous breasts, entranced, as she collected the empty dishes. "Your father wants to see you," she told the boy.

***

He moved with small shuffling steps to the room that had once been the main factory floor. That was where his father, the Ragdoll, held court. He sat on a throne of rusted steel girders. "In!" he ordered when he saw Peter's head poking around the door-frame. Only two other men were present, both with guns. The air smelt of incense. "Come to me worthless child." He moved forward immediately, knew hesitance would be punished. "Remove your clothes." He stripped quickly. His skinny body was covered in scars and welts. Peter felt relief when his father reached for a whip. There were so many worse things he could have chosen. Today would be a whip.

He tested it first, cracking it lightly against his own hand. Then he drew it back.

***

It was many hours latter when Peter crawled back into his bed. Alex was awake, her wide eyes bright in the dark room. "He'll come for me," she said, "now that he's finished with you." There was an undercurrent of anger to her words.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in reply. Painfully he stood and climbed into the bed with her. They held each-other tightly.

***

It was some time before the door creaked open. A figure stood silhouetted in the light from the hallway. He stepped into the room. Alex squeezed her brother's hand so hard her fingernails drew blood.


	2. A School Day

This is a little short but I should have the next chapter up soon. I think I've figured out why no one's gone into detail about these two characters past, its major themes are not the most comfortable things to write about... to such an extent that I'm a bit iffy about posting this chapter. I've done my best to keep things as brief and non-graphic as possible but still here's a warning: THIS CHAPTER DEALS WITH PHYSICAL AND SEXUAL ABUSE OF CHILDREN DO NOT READ IF EASILY UPSET.

*****

On Monday morning their nanny woke Peter and Alex for school. They had started only a year before and the young boy supposed he enjoyed it. He was in the same class as his sister as there was only nine months difference in their age. She was meant to be a replacement for the useless normal son their father had received but instead she'd been a little girl.

They walked to school with the other children of their father's cult. Though some of these were almost in their teens Alex always led the way. There were about two dozen of them and for the most part they did not interact with the rest of the school's student population.

Peter sat at the desk he shared with his sister, quietly sucking his thumb. Alex stared straight ahead, into nothing.

The teacher, a plainly dressed woman in her thirties, entered. From behind round glasses her eyes scanned the classroom. When her gaze rested on the two siblings she seemed sad. The young boy couldn't think why.

The teacher started to talk, writing simple sums on the blackboard for the class to take down. Peter found it hard to concentrate. His back felt like it was burning. In places his sweater was bonded to his skin with dried blood. He opened his copy-book. On a clean page he started to draw.

It was a clumsy, childish picture: two stick-figure children - a boy and a girl - under a big grinning sun. He smiled. It looked pretty. It needed something more though. He added some dancing teddy-bears, almost as big as the children. Then he drew a tray on one of the bears hands and a big wobbeldy jello on top. It just looked like a lump really.

The teacher, walking between the desks, saw his drawing. She bit her lip and said nothing.

At lunch they piled their plates high, no dinner on schooldays.

As Alex stabbed her potatoes Peter chewed on a fish-stick. He felt sick.

Back in the factory he curled up beneath his blanket. He hadn't done his homework. In his mind however that was a purely optional activity.

"Are you sleepy Peter?" his sister questioned.

"Yes," he answered without removing the covers from his head.

Later - it was dark now - an angry hand pulled him out onto the floor. Still half-asleep, his eyes were unfocused as his face was shoved into his now hot and clammy blanket and his worn shorts were pulled down. A hand was squeezing him and it hurt. He cried out when cold metal was forced inside of him. He head was slammed against the hard bed.

When it was finished he lay in a shivering ball on the floorboards. He heard Alex being instructed to stand in that gentle voice their father never used with Peter. He watched her unhappily take the offered hand and be led from the room.

*****


	3. A Dream

Alex tugged half-heartedly on her brother's arm to wake him. He was still lying on the floor, he'd never made it back into his bed. "School," she said when he opened his eyes. Peter stood unsteadily. He smelt of blood and still felt sick. Zombie-like he followed her outside.

School passed in a blur. The teacher let him put his head down on the desk and he slept through lessons. His dreams were full of the dancing teddy bears he'd drawn the day before.

That night his father beat him unconscious.

* * *

He woke to the red of blood, smeared and splattered on the floor around him. It was early morning and the large room was deserted, his father's iron girder throne empty. Shakily he tried to stand. His right leg bent unnaturally below the knee. A sharp piece of bone sliced through the skin and, crying out, he fell back to the floor. With gasping breaths and biting back tears he struggled to get the pain under control.

Peter lay on the wooden boards, staring at the protruding piece of his skeleton and found himself hating it, hating his bones for being normal, for being brittle and stiff, unlike his father's, his brother's and his sister's. If he had beautiful, bendy, unbreakable limbs like them instead of his own useless skeleton he knew his father would love him.

Alex arrived a few minutes later, his yell must have woken her. She gazed for a moment - vaguely interested - at the open fracture on his leg, then pulled him upright. She was far stronger than her skinny five-year old body suggested.

She brought him back to their room. Trying to get up on the bed hurt to much so in the end he simply pulled his blanket down and curled up beneath it on the floor. Alex went to school.

* * *

"Where's your brother today?" the teacher asked when she saw the empty seat beside the young red-haired girl.

"He's sick Miss."

He was often 'sick'.

* * *

He slept for much of the day, pain waking him whenever he unconsciously shifted position.

He stared at the ceiling. There was a damp stain that reminded him of an angry face. He scrunched his eyes shut.

He was dreaming now.

The angry face was shouting.

He was bad.

He was so very bad.

He didn't deserve to live.

He'd started school that day.

That was bad.

He wanted to hide.

He was six.

He didn't want to be bad.

He'd thought he was meant to go.

He was wrong.

He was bad.

Only Alex should have gone.

He was bad.

He didn't deserve to live.

He was nothing.

He shouldn't exist.

Now the teachers had seen him.

That was bad.

It was his fault.

He should die.

But the teachers had seen him.

So he couldn't die.

But the baby could.

Little boy, not even a year old...

Cute little baby...

They'd played peek-a-boo yesterday.

Father held up the infant.

He gave a shrill baby cry.

Then a knife went right through his tummy.

He was pinned to the wall, screaming.

Screaming.

Screaming!

A horrible unnatural sound.

A baby dying.

A hand shoved him forwards.

He had to watch.

The knife handle was almost in his mouth.

He had to watch.

The blood smelt sickly sweet.

The baby died.


	4. A Soft Toy

I'm going to skip ahead a few years after this chapter.

*****

A tap was dripping somewhere. Drip... Drip... Drip... Peter wondered if it was nearly time for his sister to get home. Drip... Drip... A dart of movement caught his eye. Careful to keep perfectly still and avoid a sudden jolt of stabbing pain he turned his eyes to get a better look. A small brown rat was nosing for crumbs in a corner of the room. Peter smiled.

The rat scampered away only shortly before Alex returned, disappearing through a crack in the wall that seemed far too small for it to squeeze through. The young girl stuck her hands into the patched pockets of her dress and pulled out some limp green beans and a few soggy potato slices. Bending down, she offered the food to her brother.

"Thanks."

They curled up on the floor that night. The beds weren't much softer anyway.

***

It was three days before their nanny - bringing them dinner - discovered Peter's leg.

She made a noise he didn't understand, then scolded him for not telling her sooner.

She pulled the limb straight - it hurt - then splinted it in place and wrapped it in strips of cloth as bandages. He thanked her when she'd finished. She gave a tight lipped scowl. "Be a good boy. Then your father won't have to punish you."

"I do try," he answered, looking up at her with round eyes, "really I do."

***

It was Monday. School was finished for the afternoon. Peter sat alone in the grounds of the factory. His leg hurt, ached, but at least it hadn't shifted position since it was splinted.

He had his copybook and pencil. Opening it, he looked at the list of words the teacher had given to put into sentences for the next day. The first was 'castle'. 'The princess was a prisoner in the castle,' he wrote in a shaky hand. The next word was 'whale'. He bit his lip, thinking. That was when he saw the little grey-brown head peeping out from behind a pile of rubble. It was the young rat he'd seen before. He smiled. Then, making sure not to move to quickly and scare it away, he reached into his pocket and took out a fry he'd kept from lunch. He broke a piece off and tossed it in the direction of the small animal. It's nose twitched. After a moment it scurried forward, picked up the morsel in it's tiny paws and nibbled on it. Peter giggled.

He named the rat Nibbler and trained it to sit on his shoulder and sleep beside him on his bed. One day he woke to find the warm ball of fur missing from it's usual spot beside his leg. He opened his eyes. Nibbler's head lay inches from his face, rusted nails shoved through his eyes and into his brain. The young boy made a noise like a strangled scream. The creature's guts were strewn around the room like wet, glistening streamers. It took him a few seconds to see the eviscerated body.

He sat for a while, trying uselessly to reattach the head, until Alex returned.

She stood calmly in the doorway, blood washed off her hands but still splattered across her dress.

"Why do you do this?" he asked. His voice was not angry, it was pleading. "Why do you always have to kill them?"

She answered, in a voice frighteningly cold for such a young child, "You're _my _brother. I'm not going to share you."

***

He buried the rat's innards in a grave by all the other but kept the rest of the body. He pulled the nail from the eyes and stitched the head back on with a length of red wool. He stuffed newspaper into the empty abdomen and sowed that up too. Finished, he hugged the dead rodent to his chest. "No one can kill you now," he whispered to it.


	5. A New Dress

Second part of the story now. Perhaps I should be updating one of the stories that more than one person reads instead of this but oh well :)

*****

Eleven years had passed. They were in high school now. Peter still sat in class with two black eyes drawing childish happy scenes. He'd stolen a box of crayons to colour them bright and sunny.

Alex's red hair hung in greasy strands over her face. She dressed like a nun, in loose dark clothes that covered all but her head and pale hands.

The teacher was telling them about the prom. It was on the next day and all most of the students could talk about. The cult children weren't supposed to go. Peter couldn't wait untill they got home so he could show his sister the surprise he had made for her.

***

He tugged on Alex's hand. "Come on," he urged in an excited half-whisper. The girl snatched her hand back but followed. Peter led her up to a partially collapsed attic room, dusty and for the most part abandoned. Rummaging in a box he pulled out something blue. He held it out to her.

She took it and unfolded it in her hands. It was a dress, made from dozens of blue rags stitched together. The scraps of cloth were all different shades and of different fabrics but carefully pieced and sewn together. "Try it on?" The boy asked.

After a moment of silence Alex stepped behind a fallen beam and changed.

"Can I see?"

She hesitated, then nervously stepped out from the shadows. The dress fitted perfectly, emphasising the curves of her young body. Still she looked profoundly uncomfortable. She stared at the ground, hair almost entirely covering her face. Peter smiled brightly. "You're so beautiful," he said. He stood a moment in silent awe.

"Peter, what's it for?"

"I made something for myself as well. I thought we could go tomorrow."

"Father said no one's allowed. We'll get in trouble."

"But it would be such fun." He was almost laughing. "And it would annoy everyone ever so much."

"Alright."

***

The next evening Alex put the dress on again. Peter tied a matching bow around her left wrist and another round her thigh. She wore her normal shoes, heavy black boots but that didn't matter, she still looked stunning. Her brother hadn't put quite so much effort into his own outfit. It was certainly eye-catching though. He wore trousers with two different coloured legs, a patched shirt and a large red ribbon around his neck. He smiled mischievously. "Shall we go dear sister?" She nodded. They walked to the door of their room. Alex held out a hand for her brother. He couldn't run as fast as her, not since the second time his leg was broken. They dashed down the stairs and through the corridors of the old factory. Someone shouted for them to stop and where were they going but they only ran faster. They burst out into the dimming sunlight and Peter started to laugh with delight. There was no time to stop however, they ran off towards the school.

*****


	6. A Dance

There's incest in this chapter, it's consensual though and not too graphic.

*****

They were breathing hard and Peter was still giggling when they arrived at the hall. People were looking at them. Their biology teacher came over, asked if they were supposed to be there. "Oh yes, definitely" the boy replied, as he wondered inside, staring entranced at the colourful paper chains and painted banners. "Oooo... Look at all the pretty dresses," he cooed. "And punch!" he ran back to Alex. "May we drink some punch sister?" The girl nodded and walked with her brother to the table of snacks. He was excited, constantly pointing out different colourful decorations but her face was devoid of emotion. She was numb. She swallowed a glass of punch, watching Peter do the same. She could clearly taste the alcohol, apparently it had already been spiked. Unable to summon the energy to care she poured another glass.

"Let's dance!" the boy suggested excitedly.

"No."

"Oh please, pretty please!"

The music changed from an upbeat pop song to a slower, sadder tune. "Alright," she conceded. They walked to the dance floor.

They swayed slowly to the music. Almost unconsciously Peter raised a hand and traced the line of his sister's jaw with his finger tips. She snatched the hand away. For a moment it looked like she would hit him. Then she pressed her lips to his instead. They'd kissed before but never where anyone could see. All their classmates and even the teachers were staring. Peter didn't care, returning the kiss and deepening it. Alex's eyes were open. After a moment or two she pulled back. Ever pair of eyes in the room was fixed on them or nervously averted. Peter giggled and looked at his sister. She seemed uncertain. He giggled again. Alex half-smiled, the expression full of contempt for her classmates. Then she gripped her brother's arm and pulled him from the hall.

They ran through the empty corridors of the school, giddy on punch and disobedience. Finally they stopped - breathing hard - and Alex led the way into a darkened classroom. She slipped her hand into Peter's trousers, feeling the scar tissue where his genitals had been. He tensed. "It's OK, I won't hurt you." Despite the words, her voice was devoid of comfort, sounding more like a threat than a reassurance. Still he relaxed. She continued to touch, bending her arm unnaturally so that she could reach his entrance. He ran his hands along her hair, bending forward to kiss her pale neck. Without warning she pushed her fingers inside him. He made a sound. She kissed her brother's mouth, biting down on his lips till they bled. She started to move her hand inside him. His eyes were open wide and he held tightly to the sides of his sister's dress, trying to pull her closer, as though he wanted to melt into her. After several minutes she pulled away. She stood silently in the darkened room.

"Can I see you?" the boy asked.

"OK," she answered after a moment. She slipped off her dress.

"You're beautiful Alex." He bent down and kissed the triangle of hair between her legs.

"No brother, I'm ugly inside, everyone is."

*****


	7. A Bad Night

This chapter (and the next) are pretty horrible but you could probably guess that much. I've tried not to be overly graphic but warning for strong themes of abuse (also language, as if that matters.)

*****

"I know what you did!"

Their father stood by the door of their room. His face was red with anger. He struck Peter hard across the face, knocking him to the floor. The teenager didn't even try to get up. "I'll deal with you latter," the older man stated. "For now you can watch your sister's punishment and know that it's your fault." He grasped his daughter's arm, shaking her violently. "You fight me but you give yourself freely to that pathetic thing, why?" he demanded. She made no answer.

"I've been too soft on you," he said. He hit her hard in the face, threw her to the ground. There was blood on her teeth. He climbed on top of her. She was still fighting, bucking and twisting. "No gentleness today daughter. If you're going to act like a whore that is how I'll treat you." He hit her again, then pushed his fore-arm into her throat as he forced her legs apart.

When he finished he was if anything angrier than before. He stood, turning to Peter, who had crawled under his sister's bed. The boy sat with his knees pulled tightly to his chest and eyes staring straight ahead. Grabbing him by the collar, his father pulled him to the centre of the room.

Alex was sitting up, tugging her dress - ripped now - back into place. She stood, watching for a moment as her father beat her brother viciously, then ran from the room.

Many hours later Peter was once again underneath his sister's bed. He was curled tightly into a ball, crying and trying not to jar broken bones. His clothes were ripped and soaked with blood. His fingernails lay a few feet away on the floorboards. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will himself asleep.

* * *

There was daylight entering the bedroom. The boy wasn't sure how long he'd been watching specks of dust float through the beams before he noticed this. "Alex," he asked, "are you there?" There was no reply.

Painfully he crawled out from under the bed. He stood awkwardly, right arm held tightly to his chest. The room was empty.

He limped out to the corridor. "Do you know where Alex is?" he asked the first person he saw, an older man with a harsh, heavily linned face. He looked at the boy's injuries but made no comment. "She's gone," he answered finally.

"Gone? Where?"

"The ungrateful girl's run away." The man turned to walk off. Looking back he added "clean yourself up", disgust evident in his voice. Then he was gone and Peter was alone.


	8. A Departure

Sorry about the delay (if anyone's actually reading this). I should have the next chapter up soon, maybe tonight.

* * *

It took the teenage boy nearly a week to make his decision. He was sure his sister would go to Gotham, the darkness of that city had always appealed to her. But maybe he didn't have to go, maybe she'd come back. No, she wouldn't, he knew that much. He would have to go to her.

Two days latter he was summoned by his father and led to a small room that had once been an office. His feet refused to cross the threshold until a sharp push forced him inside. This was the worst room. This was where his father kept his private things.

He pushed Peter backwards onto a pockmarked wooden table, chaining his wrists and ankles to the table legs. "You're going to suffer until you die," he told his son. Then he hit him full force in the stomach. Impulsively he hit him again, then started to cut away his stained clothes. When he'd finished that he took a lighter, held it in place against sensitive patches of skin until they blistered and blackened. He did it again and again for close to an hour, only stopping when one of his followers knocked on the door. He straightened.

"Come in."

It was a young man, a cult follower. He barely glanced at the teenager being tortured not ten feet away. He needed something. Guns? No, money. Ignoring his son, the Ragdoll opened a small safe. Peter watched, dazed from blows to the head, struggling to keep his eyes open, to pay attention. The man left. His father changed the lighter for a knife. The boy gasped when it cut into his burned flesh. The pain continued. He cried and whimpered and pulled against the chains. It didn't do any good.

His father having at last grown bored or tired, Peter was left alone in the room. No longer chained to the table he was sprawled on the floor, arms wrapped around his head in an effort to escape injury. It was almost an hour before he realised the assault had ceased. Nervously he opened his eyes.

It was dark, the only light coming from the streetlights beyond the room's one grimy window. He pushed himself upright, biting down on his lower lip to keep from crying out. The room was empty. Painfully he put on what remained of his clothing. They were shredded, little more than strips of fabric. He knew - even if he didn't need to find Alex - that he had to leave. He was going to die if he stayed, and soon. He didn't want to die.

He looked around, found an empty satchel and slipped that on too. Then he limped to the safe. He remembered the combination, keyed it in and the door swung open. There was close to a million dollars inside. He transferred the money to the bag. He tried the door. It was locked. Next he tried the window. It was nailed shut. The teenager looked around, breathing rapidly. He found a piece of pipe that had earlier been used to beat him. He could barely lift it. He flung it at the window. The glass shattered. He climbed through, not even noticing the cuts he received, and dropped to the ground.


	9. A Journey

Painfully the teenager made his way along the city streets. It was late and the few people not warm in a bed ignored him. He walked unsteadily, one ankle broken and twisted, shifting position each time he put weight on it. He entered the first hotel he came to, a posh five-star affair. He left a trail of bloody footprints in the thick cream carpet. The receptionist hurried out from behind his desk. "I'll have to ask you to leave," he said to the boy.

"I've got money. I'll pay double if you let me stay." Anxiously he reached into the bag and pulled out a large bundle of hundred dollar bills. He looked questioningly at the older man.

The receptionist's eyes bugged slightly but he ushered the teenager over to the desk and checked him in.

The receptionist showed Peter to a room. "Can I get you anything sir?" he asked before leaving.

"Some bandages?" the boy asked uncertainly.

"Of course. And perhaps clean clothes?"

"That would be fantastic!" he replied excitedly.

With a false smile the hotel worker nodded and left.

Peter sat down on the side of the bed, legs almost collapsing beneath him. It was the softest thing he'd ever felt. Lying back he was asleep almost instantly.

A knock on the door woke the teenager an hour later. He tensed, momentarily forgetting where he was. The voice of the receptionist reminded him; he had run away, he was in a hotel. He stood unsteadily to open the door.

Sitting in the white tilled en-suite bathroom Peter inspected his injuries. He didn't remember them ever being so bad before. Many of the wounds that had begun to clot had started bleeding again when he'd showered. At least he felt clean though. He wrapped bandages around the wounds on his thighs. A gash near his shoulder was gaping widely and he thought he'd better sew it. Opening the small hotel mending kit he smiled happily on seeing the selection of colours. 'Blue' he decided, that would look nice.

Stitched and bandaged, he tried on his new clothes. There was a yellow golf shirt with the logo of the hotel embroidered on the breast pocket, a navy hooded sweater, beige shorts and a pair of flip-flops. They still had the tags from the gift shop. Peter stared at his reflection in the mirror. He'd never had real new clothes before. Once or twice father had bought something new for Alex but his clothes had always been the very cheapest from the second hand shops. He ran his hands over the clean smooth fabric and smiled.

Early the next morning he boarded a train for Gotham. He bought twenty dollars' worth of sweets from the snack cart, ate them all and spent the rest of the trip throwing up in the tiny bathroom.


End file.
